Tales from the Lipped

That Girl has been a very, very busy beaver lately (pun intended!). My weekends have been full of one hilarious event after another... events that make me contemplate the need to shock the gene pool like it's being prepped for the summer season! You see, people have not stopped amazing me. Each and every moment is full of another astonishingly stupid human move!

Encounter at IHOP on a Saturday night:
Let's set the scene. It's nearly 2am. I've had a couple of beers... literally a beer or two. Pulling up in front of the local IHOP, I'm greeted (and blinded) by four police cruisers, cherries blazing.

Upon entering the establishment, I was greeted by a girl holding a towel against her bleeding face. Interesting, I think to myself. As we are seated, I look towards the restroom to see a police officer holding open the door and a girl washing her eyes out with soap and water. What the fuck happened here, you ask? Well, apparently, a small food fight turned into a domestic battery incident as the girl in the bathroom had apparently thrown a glass that shattered as it hit the other girl in the face. Then, there was apparently some pepper spray, blood splatter and a whole lot of commotion. Really? It all started with a tasty little sausage link to the forehead and ends with the emergency room, assault and battery charges and a face full of cayenne pepper. Sounds like an eventful evening to me! Stay classy ladies!

Oh, speaking of classy ladies, I've been notincing a lot of VPL's (visible panty lines) lately. In fact, as I picked at my scrambled eggs, the restaurant began to fill up with bar goers. Here's a wise word to all my well-rounded...uh...er... or just round women out there: just because it went on a mannequin doesn't mean that it should go on you! Leggings should not be painted onto legs that look like they are tree trunks that just survived a hail storm. Oh, and they definitely shouldn't be trying to conceal your granny panties because we can all see that your panties are migrating towards your ass crack , or they are ruffled. Either way... um... textured panties (whether natural or because you're a fat ass) don't belong under spandex pants. I know they say that fashion can hurt but I think they were referring to ultra high stilettos, not MY EYES!

A weekend away... slummin' it!
This past weekend, I traveled to a city just a few hours away to visit a very dear friend. Upon arriving late Friday night, we ventured out for a few cocktails. We were tired. I'd already worked eight hours and then driven three. She had been off work for nearly 6 hours anticipating my arrival. We decided to go to a divey little bar with cheap booze where she knew that we didn't have to do any sort of "maintenance" before leaving the house.

Side note: I love divey bars. I really enjoy being with salt of the earth people as they tend to be incredibly entertaining. This particular evening and the one that followed left my gut as sore as a Canadian whore's vagina after the closing ceremony of the winter Olympics.

Upon entering the bar, we were greeted by the smell of cheap cigarettes and Walmart. When I say that this bar was divey, I mean, it was trailer park central... and not the good ol' double wides, but the aluminum can variety. We were by far the best looking and classiest ladies in the bar. I could have shit my pants and still been a step up from at least a third of the patrons.

It was kareoke night. Oh how I love white trash kareoke! I spent the evening listening to a woman who had some pipes but really thought that she WAS Whitney Houston. I wanted to tell the woman that crack is whack and that she should keep her day job but instead I just giggled and lip synched as she wailed and warbled her way through "I Will Always Love You". She was a Kareoke Queen...

The show wasn't over though. It was filled with people taking the stage, which was really a patch of dirty tile next to the pool tables, singing one bad rendition of a good song after another. This was their American Idol moment... repeated every Friday and Saturday night. My ears were bleeding and my mouth was running a million miles a minute. I spewed a running commentary regarding the performers, their lack of singing ability and filled the moments in between with my own song lyrics (generally crude).

The highlight of the kareoke encounter included a death metal version of Micheal Jackson's "Beat It" and a boy-on-boy duet of "Nightshift" by the Commodores. The scream-o "Beat It" boy screamed better than the man that sang like he was Elton John... the only problem was that the Elton impersonator couldn't sing, nor could he read and therefore only said about half of each fucking word. Really? Really. The boy-on-boy duet was pretty fucking amazing, as it was quickly turned into "The Mother Fuckin' Nightshift". I like to think of it as an urbanization of a classic. Thank you boys for the creativity! It was a delight to my ears... especially in comparison to any of the other vocal vomiters...er...singers.

The truth is, I don't really have the balls to do kareoke. I know I can't sing well. Why would I try? I barely sing outloud in the shower, let alone in a crowded bar. I could have laughed all night at the dumbasses that really though they were fucking good! The sad part is that I could tell that this WAS their moment, the moment they lived for every fucking Friday and Saturday! How sad for them...

The weekend was topped with more trailer park moments... the kind that make you rethink ordering another drink at the fear of becoming what you're surrounded by. Example: 50+ year old woman, shit faced drunk, fighting against gravity will all she had. She began her evening with one man and ended it with another. Neither gentleman was eye candy... in fact, more like eye composte. Her dirty jean jacket and stained denim jeans (wedged firmly between her ass cheeks... the pants, not the jacket) were only the tip of the iceberg. She danced, and then fell down. She stood up and then fell down. She walked over to our table as we took bets on how long it would be before she fell down again... looked at us and slurred "eeny, meeny, miney, mo".

"You do the hokey pokey and you turn yourself around," I replied. She fell down. I guess that's what it's all about.

I've done the kareoke thing. I won't be doing it again any time soon. I mean, really, there's not a stage that's ready for another rendition of Britney Spears' "Hit Me Baby One More Time". Instead, I think I'll just keep on being a dancing queen.